Page 8 of Forbid It

“Dennis is a good kid,” one of my teammates says from beside me. I definitely shook his hand earlier, but I can’t remember his name at all. Sandy? Marti? “I don’t think anyone else on the team has ever said more than a passing thank you.”

I rub my jaw. That doesn’t surprise me. Some guys get so full of themselves, they forget that if they weren’t born with the talent, they’d be a fan too. It’s why I’ve always stopped when kids ask for an autograph, and make time to thank the club staff, or acknowledge the ball boys. You’re never too big to be kind. “Well, that’s not me.”

“Santiago,” he says, offering me a fist to bump. “Santi.”

“Robbie,” I say, brushing his knuckles with mine.

Santi laughs. “Yeah bro, I know.”

I offer him a sly smile.

“How you settling in? Made any friends?”

I nod. It’s on the tip of my tongue to spill that the only person I’ve actually met since landing in LAX was the daughter of our boss, and whose panties are currently in my bedroom. What else was I going to do with them? Leave them to fall into the ocean so a poor turtle can get the lace trapped around its neck? It’s good for the environment.

“Not really,” I admit. “I’ve mostly been training and trying to remember to drive on the right hand side.”

“I’ll take you out for dinner one day.” Santi grins. “Then you can have one friend.”

“You’re on.”

He shoots me a shit-eating smile. “You can pay though.”

I lower my head as a laugh escapes my lips. “Sure.”

“King,” Florent calls as I’m about to head back to the pitch. “Hamilton wants to see you in my office.”

My knee twinges with a phantom ache and I run my hand through my hair.

“Now?” I glance back at the rest of the team as the assistant coaches start haranguing them.

Florent nods, arms crossed across his chest. “We’ll manage without you for a half hour.”

The hallways are silent apart from the click of my cleats on the linoleum and the ragged breath in my lungs. The sinking feeling in my gut is the same as when I was called into the office back in Cambridge. It was the start of the season and I’d been benched for so long since I’d been cleared to play that the decision to transfer me out of the team–out of the league–wasn’t as much as a surprise as it was a bullet directly between my eyes. I don’t think I’ve performed that badly this morning–it's barely been a couple of hours. Can they really have changed their mind already?

I take a breath as I approach Florent’s office, the door hanging wide open.

I tap the wooden door frame as I peek inside Florent’s office and sitting in his desk chair is Michael Hamilton.

“Robbie King.” Hamilton stands and offers me his hand to shake. “Take a seat. How did you find that?”

I nod as I sit down, wiping my hands on my shorts. “Yeah, it was fine. Good to be back in it.”

“How did you find the team?”

“Yeah, good.”

He leans back in his chair, the leather squeaking.

“Anything else?” Hamilton asks, lacing his fingers together.

I kiss my teeth. He’s obviously not going to let me get away without giving him something slightly helpful.

“It’s still early days. We’ll be more cohesive after a few practices.”

“Well, we better hope so.” Hamilton nods. “You’re here to add a bit of star quality to this team. We’re going to need it this season.”

What the fuck does that mean? I tilt my head, waiting for him to continue.